Sailing to Byzantium
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: 1944. After an acute case of bad timing, Hermione finds herself teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. They say teachers shouldn't have favourites but there's something about him


**_A/N:_ howiya buddies! So, I'm back, with another vague and rambling idea for a story ... This time, trying my hand and something new, a Tom/Hermione! Let me be clear, this isn't a replacement for _Fire & Ice_ – that's just going under some serious revision right about now, but should be up soon enough. Sorry about the delay ...**

**_Beta'd by __Chrissytingting__, who's quite wonderful in every way_**

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SAILING TO BYZANTIUM  
**

_**...**__ God, grant me the serenity  
To accept the things I cannot change;  
Courage to change the things I can;  
And wisdom to know the difference  
_ – Serenity Prayer _**...**_

**Chapter One.  
**

It was one of those things, so normal and habitual, that she told no one she was going. It would only take a second, so why bother? 'Second' was a rather lax interpretation, truth be told, in this case the same kind of 'second' it took to make a cup of tea while her parents waited with the DVD on pause, the same 'second' it took for her to make that final, all-important decision on the evening's footwear while Ron stood, impatient, at the door – but none of her little 'excursions', as she had dubbed them, lasted longer than half an hour. And besides, she could never quite bring herself to break the near-sacrosanct silence of the Archives, full (a liberal use of the word, but what of it) of people pouring, squinty-eyed, over dusty volumes, each of them surrounded by a small city of files, old documents, and stacks of parchment. People like her, in other words. Hermione knew she would not have appreciated it had one of her companions announced they were about to pop off into 1944 for ten minutes, excuse me and thanks very much, don't eat all the chocolate biscuits.

The book was nearing half-way now, and the novelty of leaping into the 20th century, rather like one might open a favourite novel at just any random page, had worn off. Time-travel would not have been necessary, however many of the Ministry's records had mysteriously disappeared during Voldemort's brief spell in power, or been altered somehow, so as to eclipse that part of history his regime did not support. There was no other way to verify information. Initially, Kingsley had been reluctant, but she told him, flatly, that there was no point in writing the damned thing – a N.E.W.T History of Magic textbook, a full account of Wizarding history in the twentieth century – if she was not going to write it right. And so, she kept the time-turner – a much more fiddly edition than the one McGonagall had given her previously, no doubt due to the greater scopeof her trips – stashed secretly done the front of her jumper. She had her qualms with using it, as it wasn't quite registered, but it wasn't like she went kitted out in a flapper dress and brogues, ready to party like it was 1929. It was just reconnaissance, to check a fact – a place, a name, an exact date. She hardly stayed long enough to change area code, let alone catalyse a different future.

Hermione worked the kinks from her neck, stretching like a cat, before slipping sideways between the skyscrapers of paper into the grotty back study where the spare quills, ink and parchment were kept. Despite its musty odour and the very obvious clumps of mould sprouting from the walls, it was the perfect launch pad. The carpet was so thick with dust: she could have staged a small war inside the boxy cupboard and no one would have been the wiser; needless to say, the telltale bumps and thumps of her departures and arrivals were well muffled.

Coughing a little, she double-checked the contents of her bag. Ron laughed at these 'emergency supplies', telling her she was tempting fate by being so indecently prepared for any eventuality it might cough up, but Hermione was cautious by nature and the prospect of being trapped in the past without so much as a toothbrush held no appeal to her whatsoever. When satisfied that everything was in order, Hermione unearthed the fine gold chain from around her neck, and, winding it around her wrist to ensure she would not drop the thing should she land awkwardly at the other end, she tapped the time-turner with her wand.

The tiny hourglass began to spin. There was whooshing noise, the sound of ears popping, and the back room was suddenly empty.

**x-x-x-x-x**

There is such thing as bad timing.

Hermione materialised in what she had taken to be a grimy alley, only to be instantly overwhelmed with the sounds and smells of London in a panic. The very air around seemed to pulse as sirens wailed and bleated. The smell of burning, the sound of stampeding feet, children crying, and people everywhere, screaming, overwhelmed her senses.

Hermione wasn't aware she had fallen until someone picked her up again.

"Watch yehrself there, luv. Come on now, come on! The shelter's this way."

She was vaguely aware of her feet moving, of someone shepherding her along. She twisted her head to see a young man of her own age – probably younger, only a boy really – dressed in khaki. A soldier. He was shouting at the crowd, encouraging them, as he and several others ushered them down sandbag-strewn streets towards the Tube station at Victoria. Over her shoulder, she could see Westminster.

But it was 1944 ... the London blitz had ended in '42 ... Hermione didn't understand. Unless she had configured the time-turner wrong? ... But that was impossible; she had specifically set it for August 4th, 1944, and she had never had a problem with an incorrect date before.

An explosion, some way across the city, shook the crowd, and they all surged forward faster still. Her soldier scooped up a stumbling child who had lost his mother within the chaos. At the entrance to the station, he said to Hermione, "Can yeh take 'im, luv? Only I've got to stay 'ere." Hermione nodded dumbly, accepting the warm body into her arm. Holding the child's head against her shoulder, her arms wrapped protectively around his small back, she struggled on. The crash of a hundred frantic footsteps echoed around the tiled tunnels of the Tube station, but, miraculously, as soon as they flanked past the sandbagged steps, the panic dissipated. People now moved slower, and began hanging back, searching for friends.

Hermione grounded to a halt. "Hello," she said softly, stroking the boy's hair. "My name's Hermione. What's yours?"

"Harry," came the muffled reply. "Harry Potter."

Hermione almost laughed.

"Alright Harry. And what's your mum's name?"

"Susan."

"That's a lovely name, isn't it," she said cheerily, bouncing Harry a little higher up her hip. "That's a lovely name. Do you remember at all, Harry, what your mum was wearing today?" Hermione scanned the crowd for a soldier, or an officer of any kind, who might help her relocate the boy with his mother. There was a first aid post over by the ticket dispensary, and she hurried over to it.

"MUM!"

En route, Harry flung his arms out at a young woman in a yellow dress. Hermione smiled as she handed him over, chatting vaguely with the tearful girl. "Thanks ever so much, miss," the girl kept saying, "'E's awful to run off on me, ain't yeh? I was so worried 'e might 'ave bin 'urt, or somefink. I'm awful grateful, miss."

"It was nothing," Hermione assured her. "Nothing. I'm sure anyone would have done the same... Em, you don't happen to know what that was, do you? Not the Blitz again!" She tried to sound jokey, offhand.

"It's them V-2 rockets, innit," said the girl with a shrug. "But it's all the same to me, really. Still gotta come down 'ere. Right pain, I fink. Pardon me, miss, but I 'ope they 'urry up an' win the war an' all."

Hermione smiled tightly. "Me too."

V-2 rockets. At least now she knew the source of the commotion, though it didn't exactly waylay her fears. It was sweltering inside the shelter, with all the people crammed in it, and the noise was magnified a hundred times by the cavernous tunnels. Jostled back and forth by harried passerbys, Hermione stood as though rooted to the ground, staring wide-eyed around her at the mass of shouting, crying, screaming people. Most seemed fine, if not shaken a little, but as she stood staring, stretchers being bleeding, broken people were rushed down the steps – victims of the nearby blast, no doubt. There was a first aid post, manned by two elderly doctors and gaggle of nurses who hardly looked old enough to be finished training – hardly a substitute for a hospital. Though young, all of nurses had set faces and looked fiercely determined ... one of them, a petite girl with dark red hair tied up tight beneath her white cap, reminded Hermione of Ginny. They wended their way about the stretchers, tending to the injured.

Quite unaware of her feet moving, Hermione found herself drawn towards the wounded. A woman was shrieking in agony, her clothing black and charred, her face and hands a raw, burnt red. The poor nurse was driven to distraction trying to fit a needle into the melted skin ... On the stretcher beside her, a man was trying to sit up, his face chalk white; Hermione could see something sharp and yellow protruding from his thigh. With an icy shudder, she realised it was his bone ... There was a little boy, no older than little Harry. His left hand was nothing but a bloody, tattered mess. He seemed too shocked to cry. Gagging slightly, Hermione turned tail and fled.

It was impossible, to just stand by and watch. She was no Healer, but she could have easily helped those poor people. Numbing charms for the pain, dittany for the flesh wounds, murtlap essence for the burn victim; Hermione had them both in her bag. She could obliviate them all afterwards ... desperate times call for desperate measures, and if there was ever a time to break the Statute of Secrecy, this would be it, when innocent people were suffering needlessly.

_No, _she told herself. _No – you'll only make things worse ... Terrible things have happened to wizards who meddled with time. You can't change things ... _

She couldn't think, not with all this noise, all this distraction. She needed to find somewhere quiet.

"All right there luv?"

It was her soldier, a concerned expression on his young face. He couldn't have been older than seventeen.

"Yeh look a bit off, but there ain't no need to worry. Yeh'll be quite safe down 'ere, I promise yeh that – 'Ey! Wot's that on yehr 'and then? You're bleedin'!" he exclaimed, pointing at her arm.

"What? I am?" Surprised, Hermione looked down at her hand. Droplets of blood, ruby red, were oozing from her closed fist. It was funny ... she didn't remember cutting herself; perhaps she grazed her hand when she had fell? Now that she was aware of the injury, it had begun to smart. Poised to open her fist, to examine to wound, Hermione froze.

It was the time-turner! It must have cracked when she fell. In the commotion, the chaos of being caught in an air raid, she had completely forgotten about the tiny hourglass stowed in her hand.

"Let's 'ave a look then," said the soldier. "Show me. I'm certified in first aid, I am; I'll patch it right up for yeh luv."

Hermione shook her head quickly. "Oh no, it's nothing. I can deal with it myself. No, really," she insisted, when he tried to take her hand. "It's nothing. Only a scratch."

He didn't look happy, but he desisted. "At least go over to the first aid post and get yehrself a bandage. Don't want that gettin' infected, or nufhink."

After swearing she would get it seen to, Hermione thanked him and hurried away. She had to find somewhere private to assess the extent of the damage done to the time-turner; hopefully it was just a crack in the glass, something a simple _reparo_ would sort – but there was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach telling her otherwise. Comparatively, her knowledge of time-turners and their intricate workings was minimal. Even if the damage was superficial, would _reparo_ be enough to restore it to perfect working order, magically as well as physically? And did she dare risk using it, lest it malfunction and leave her stranded in some unknown era?

She needed expert advice, that was for sure. The sooner the better.

Hermione took a deep, calming breath, and mentally listed her priorities: find somewhere quiet and discreet, examine the time-turner and heal her hand – which was still bleeding and stinging like mad – then find a way out of this infernal shelter without causing too much of a disruption. Surreptitiously, she glanced about, searching for such a place ... She could always slip down the Tube tunnel. Already, the air was hazy with cigarette smoke and the lights were purposely dimmed to save electricity. With most people's attention fixed on the wounded, surely no one would notice her stealing away.

But what if a train came?

Hermione snorted. She was a witch. She could deal with that bridge when she crossed it.

She walked for a good hundred metres down the track, igniting her wand tip after the sounds of the shelter faded. Leaning against the wall, she unfurled her fist with a pained hiss. The tiny hourglass had cracked cleanly in two, and her palm now glittered with splintered glass, embedded in her flesh. But somehow, miraculously, all the sand seemed to be present, contained in the bottom half.

Gingerly, Hermione tapped it with her wand, thinking _Reparo_, and she gave a gasp of pain as the shards simultaneously withdrew from her palm and reformed the hourglass. She conjured a handkerchief and wrapped it around the delicate bundle, before stowing it in an inside pouch of her bag. If at all possible, she wanted to avoid using it before it was inspected thoroughly by someone who had experience with this kind of thing – but she could hardly walk into the Ministry of Magic and say, 'sorry lads, broke my time-turner, can you help?'. She didn't have the complimentary paperwork for starters, and with that alone, she had broken at least a dozen laws and international decrees. And besides, once armed with the correct knowledge, she was sure she could repair it herself.

What she really needed, she thought with a smile, was a library.

It was so simple that she could have kicked herself. After muttering a quick healing charm, Hermione spun on the spot and Disapparated with a faint pop.

**x-x-x-x-x**

It was a filthy Muggle habit, and he abhorred himself for it – abhorred the weakness it inspired in him – but there was something, something _comforting_, in breathing in lungful after lungful of smoke. Tom Riddle perched himself on a pile of leaking sandbags, legs crossed, and watched the world rotate around him as he worked his way through a pack of Lucky Strikes. They were God awful, American of course, but beggars can't be choosers. It wasn't lack of funds that hindered him – he could always steal what he wanted, aided and abetted by magic, now that he was of age – but, owing to rationing, no shops stocked his preferred Dunhills. Or, Mrs. Cole's preferred Dunhills, for it from her he first developed a taste, then a thirst, for cigarettes. When he began stealing hers, he had no intention of using them himself, wishing merely to deprive her of the small pleasure, but then became bored during the long summer months. He had begun more for something to do than anything. Simultaneously, he loathed and loved the way smoking relaxed him, making him feel at ease. Surely, nothing good could come of saturating his body and brain with Muggle chemicals, but it felt ... It felt _good_.

Tom exhaled into the dusk.

In the distance, London burned. She was in a perpetual state of flame these days, always something small raging away, somewhere or other. He sat back, cloaked in shadow, and watched lazily as men in uniform scurried back and forth with varying haste. He found their antics a constant source of amusement: the lot of them tearing mindlessly about like headless chickens – it was almost pitiful, and at time he couldn't help hoping that they had sent a brighter bunch off to the continent, else they would all end up speaking German. When things grew quiet, he could always make his own fun ... a trip jinx here, a spontaneous fire there. He was always discreet, and now that he was seventeen, there was no chance of being caught by the interfering busybodies from the Ministry. Last summer, he had been given a special dispensation to use magic, should the circumstance arise. Dippet had written to the Ministry specially to ask for it, anything for precious Tom Riddle.

Tom's lip curled at the thought of the old man.

At least Dumbledore commanded his respect.

He crushed the glowing butt of the cigarette against his palm. He inhaled, slowly, letting it swell inside him, fill him, and then he exhaled. He was in control.

Dusk faded from a hazy purple into a bloody sunset, and, at around eight, the sirens began to wail shrilly again. With the most subtle flick, Tom silenced the nearest siren – infernal, irritating thing – and settled back to enjoy the show.

**x-x-x-x-x**

Hermione only hoped, as she strode purposely up the path from Hogsmeade to the Hogwarts gates, that Dumbledore – or anyone – was in the castle. It was August, after all; all the staff could be away on holiday ... But she doubted it. She turned a corner and the gates swam into the view in the near darkness. Hermione sped up. The sight of Hogwarts, no matter the circumstances, always filled her with unblemished hope and comfort: it was like sinking slowly into a warm bath.

At the gates, she paused, unsure of how to proceed. Did she have to alert the castle of her presence or would some hidden alarm – or whatever the magical equivalent – go off inside the castle? Darkness was now beginning to settle in, and Hermione did not fancy waiting much. Brandishing her wand, she sent a huge silver otter streaking up the dark hills towards the castle carrying the message, _My name is Hermione Granger. I would like to speak with Professor Albus Dumbledore, urgently. I am waiting at the gates_. She had considered putting some kind of secret message, but she doubted Dumbledore received many messages via Patronus and was certain he would react to this one with due consideration. Her suspicion was correct, and, only minutes later, the castle doors were thrown open, spilling buttery-yellow light onto the black grounds. A tall, thin figure was visible, striding down towards the gates.

The thought of seeing Professor Dumbledore – even a Dumbledore she did not know – brought a lump to Hermione's throat. She struggled to control herself, but as his face swam into view, she might as well have attempted to grow an extra set of toes. Despite the auburn hair and beard, Dumbledore was exactly as she remembered him; bright, blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles, a long and very crooked nose, and an aura of wisdom, power, and sheer goodness.

"Hello, Professor," Hermione whispered. "It's so good... to see you. Again."

"Again?" repeated Dumbledore, a politely puzzled smile on his lips. "Do explain, Miss Granger."

Hermione swallowed. "Can I come inside first? Only because it's a long story, and – to be perfectly honest, sir, I'm starving."

Dumbledore subjected her to a long, calculating look. "Alas, I'm afraid I cannot permit your entry to the school without a little delicate poking into that long story of yours, Miss Granger. Perhaps, we could frequent the Three Broomsticks? A charming new edition to Hogsmeade, which, if you'll permit me to say, does bypass the fear of food-poisoning one sometimes encounters when dining at the Hog's Head." He finished with a cheerful wink, stepping through the gates to join her on the path.

"Will Madame Rosmerta mind?" Hermione asked. "It's quite late, and she usually closes about nine ..." She trailed off. Dumbledore was looking at her again, a piercing light-blue stare.

"Madame _Rosmerta_?" Dumbledore blinked. "No... The Three Broomsticks is owned by an enchanting woman by the name of Katarina Ogden. It's a short walk to Hogmeade. Why don't you regale us with your tale while we walk?"

And so Hermione began, weighing each word, lest she let slip something calamitous. She didn't tell him the exact year, but summarised she was from the future, and told him of her project – writing a contemporary History of Magic for the N.E.W.T. course – the almost-illegal time-turner, and her inopportune arrival in the midst of an air raid. "It must have broken when I fell. I appeared right in the middle of a crowd, you see." She fished out the unfortunate time-turner, showing it to him. "I repaired it, physically at least, but I know next to nothing of how they work. I thought it would be pretty stupid of me to use it until I know for sure that it's working properly, or I could end up God knows where."

"A wise decision," Dumbledore agreed. "May I?" He indicated the time-turner.

"Of course... But do you mind, if I wait until we reach the pub? I don't want to risk breaking it. _Again_. Not that I'm implying you're clumsy or anything," she added quickly, shooting Dumbledore a furtive look. He shook his head, chuckling.

"Not at all, Miss Granger. I have some questions, if you don't mind."

"Nope. Fire away, sir!" said Hermione brightly.

"For one, why did you use a time-turner to write your book? Why not use the Ministry's archives for reference. You would have saved yourself a lot of time and hassle."

"Well, I would have, but... you see... the archives, where I'm from, well… they're not entirely accurate," she said, a little lamely. "And I just figured, if I was going to invest time and effort into this book, I might as do it right. And it's worth it, every second of it. I don't mind it at all. Education is vital. I mean, kids are who we teach them to be, and our history is part of who we are. We can't ignore it, or airbrush out the parts we don't like because they show us in a bad light, or because they don't comply with our ideal society. And we can learn so much from the past, like how to stop the signs so we can stop things before they start to get out of hand and snowball on us. My dad always told me, if you're going to do something, you might as do it right and do yourself justice. But I felt, because the twentieth century was so pivotal in Wizarding history, that I had to do it justice as well. To do that I needed the facts. All the facts." Hermione paused for breath, then realised she was ranting, and stopped short. "Sorry... I was rambling."

"I don't think an apology has ever been less appropriate," said Dumbledore lightly, and smiled down at her.

Hermione beamed.

After a supper hot soup and fresh bread, Hermione unwrapped the time-turner and laid it on the table for Dumbledore to inspect. For a good half an hour, he examined it from every angle, tapping it with his wand every so often, murmuring spells.

"Well," prompted Hermione when he finally set it down again. "Well? Can you ... can _we_ ... fix it? It is fixable?"

"I don't know," said Dumbledore quietly. "I shall have to study it further, I'm afraid."

"Couldn't I ... use a different one instead?" Hermione asked, with the air of one grasping at straws.

"You can, of course, inquire at the Ministry, though I doubt you will be licensed a replacement. Especially as this one is... less than legal," he said diplomatically.

Hermione groaned in frustration, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I _knew_ something like this would happen, I just _knew _it! Ron always said something like this would happen if I kept at it. He'll never shut up about it now, I'll never live this down!" She laughed at little to herself, thinking of Ron, thinking of when she would see him again. Would it be days, weeks, months? ... She shuddered at the thought.

"Professor, you don't have to spend your time researching it. School starts up again in three weeks, and I know you'll be busy. I can do it myself, if you can just tell me what books I'll need. I have money. I can buy them. I don't want to waste your time."

"On the contrary, Miss Granger, it would be my time well spent. I have never come across a case like this before, and I am most curious to see how it resolves itself. If you wouldn't mind, I should like to – tag along, say," he said, with a smile.

Hermione could not help grinning like an idiot. Professor Dumbledore – the greatest Wizard of the twentieth century, wanted to work ... with her! "O-of course, Professor," she stammered. "I–it would be an honour. To work ... with you. I – I would appreciate your help so much. I ... Thank you! But how shall we do it. Should we correspond? I can rent a room here, in Hogsmeade, and I can work on it myself, once I've familiarised myself with the basic theory behind it all." Aware she was rambling again, Hermione took a great gulp of water, and then asked the question that had been on her tongue from the start. "Sir, professor – can I – I mean, would it be all right ... if I used the Hogwarts library? Even just until term starts. It's just, it's so well stocked ... and I know my way around it, from my time at Hogwarts, and ..." She trailed off, fingers crossed beneath the table.

Though she couldn't see why Dumbledore would refuse her, he did not have absolute power of what happened at Hogwarts. Armando Dippet was the Headmaster, after all.

"I don't know what other library you were planning to use," he said with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "As for renting a room here? Needless expenditure, Miss Granger. There are plenty of rooms at Hogwarts. We have had our fair share of researchers boarding with us over the years, and all have behaved themselves in an exemplary fashion. If you can give me a reason as to why you won't conduct yourself in diligent, discreet manner, I don't see why you cannot come and stay in the castle. Allow me, however, to run it by the Headmaster."

"And? ..." Hermione forced herself to stay calm. She could scarcely believe what she had heard. The possibility of boarding at Hogwarts ... "Do you think he'll agree? I won't be a disruption at all! When term starts I'll disillusion myself!"

Dumbledore laughed genially. "I don't think that will be necessarily. However, there must be some vague cover story for your appearance. I only say this because you look as though you were, not so long ago, at school yourself, but we cannot pass you off as a Hogwarts student, for I fear Headmaster Dippet, or some of the present students, would not recognise you as one of their own. And thus, we hit a slight snag," he finished lamentably.

Hermione's face fell. "Well ... I've got a fair grip of French. I used to holiday in Dijon with my parents ... I could, maybe, pretend to be from France. Or, at least, that I grew up there, so I won't have to change my name," she proposed tentatively. "I could be a refugee from Grindelwald's takeover. I could easily pass as a resistance fighter. I have ... experience."

"Well, then. Hermione Granger, the exiled partisan from Dijon ... that all seems to be in order. Or, should I say, _que tous semblent être dans l'ordre_?" he finished with a wink.

Despite the precariousness of her situation – trapped in the past with no sure route of escape, a new alias to maintain, and a guaranteed teasing waiting for her back home – Hermione felt irascibly happy. She was going back to Hogwarts. She was really going back.

**x-x-x-x-x**

When in London – which wasn't often these days – Tom stayed in the Leaky Cauldron, having left the damned orphanage for good after his Fifth Year. Tom the barman, who (like most adults) had taken a shine to him – quiet, polite, studious orphan that he was – and let him rent a small room at a much cheaper rate. He also paid Tom handsomely for doing the most menial of household tasks, mainly kitchen work: washing and the like. It was while working at the Leaky Cauldron that he learned one could perform underage magic, undetected, while in a magical dwelling, as the Ministry had no way of knowing which of the many wizards present was the perpetrator. He would set the dishes to wash, dry and stack themselves while he read away, sitting by the stove. It was rather tedious work, but he didn't mind it once it was confined to the back rooms. He could not risk been spotted by passing schoolmates. The authority of a kitchen boy was laughable, and he was about to enter his final, and most crucial, year.

Yet it was due to his days spent at the Leaky Cauldron that he began to forge connections with the various shopkeepers. Naturally, he would peruse Diagon Alley, but that was merely for show. Tom might not think on him so favourably if all his patrons brought back whispers of his constant skulking down Knockturn Alley. In truth, there was nothing in Diagon Alley to interest him – while Knockturn Alley, it sang his name, like a lullaby. Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn to its rich darkness, sucked in, even. There was the old miser, Burke, owner of the most reputable of the Dark Artefact shops, who made a habit of calling Tom in every time he saw him pass by the window, always showing him some new wares, telling him snatches of old stories. Tom suffered his ramblings, knowing all too well that he could use Burke just as much as Burke thought he could use Tom. "You finish school next year," he would hint, every so often. "Don't you? Well, think on me, won't you? I could use a boy like you around here ... A boy of your talents."

When he said talents, Tom knew he meant charm and good looks, not his extensive knowledge of curses, which far outstripped Burke's.

In the Apothecary, there was Djaq, a Turk with obsidian eyes, who could brew poisons of such exquisite and subtle nastiness that Tom hardly dared breath in his presence, lest he offend. Aching for a share of his knowledge, Tom would offer to grind bones for him, a truly trying experience, as Djaq insisted they be crushed to a powder finer than dust by hand. Magic would only interfere. Aside from bone, one of Djaq's favourite ingredients was blood. "Comes from body," he whispered, holding Tom's hand over the cauldron. "Goes back to body ... Helps potion bind to body. See?"

As drop after scarlet drop broke the potion's surface, the congealed sludge transformed into liquid diamond, something sleek and slippery, clearer than water.

"Yes," Tom breathed. "Oh, yes ..."

His favourite lurked down the darkest end, where the cobbled path became so narrow that daylight was quite blocked out. Esmerelda Serpine, a gypsy of great beauty and indeterminable age, owned a tea shop – not that she had served tea to anyone in years. She told fortunes with a colossal, cracked crystal ball set into a nest of silver and bones. Embedded in the webbed fissures was something dark, something rusty, for no matter how often she cleaned it, Esmerelda could not coax all the blood from the cracks. She would slice open a customer's hand, let them bleed over the crystal ... she said, to get something from the depths of Fate, you had to give something in return.

She taught him many things, Esmerelda, in the four years he had known her. Before his days of boarding in the Leaky Cauldron, he would come wandering down Knockturn Alley, every day exploring just a little bit further, delving just a little bit deeper. She came from everywhere and nowhere, from Algeria and New Orleans, the Caribbean and Paris. She taught him French, taught him how to drink Absinthe, taught him how to fuck. And then there was the magic. Esmerelda knew curses, old curses, curses that made him sick. She was a beautiful woman, dark and exotic, with skin the colour of milky coffee and eyes of jade green. Her hair was thick and dark and dreadlocked, twisted, and run with heavy silver beads. She had a snake, named Argento, with slanted eyes like inlaid diamonds, and kept him coiled about her shoulders like a shining silver rope.

"Y' have me lonely, wit'out y', cher," she moaned, when he paid her a visit that night. "Y' have me so cold. What y' be doin' dat y' can't tell ol' Esmerelda. Whisper it, t' me ... _Je peux garder un secret._"

He smirked, one finger absently stroking Argento's smooth head. "I've no doubt you can keep a secret, only it's not mine to tell."

Esmerelda pouted. "_S'il vous plait_."

"_Non_."

"I can smell it on y'." She took his head in hers, trailed her tongue across his fingertips. "I can taste th' foreign soil ... I taste blood. Y' got blood on y' hands, _cher_. It's in creases. Stains like dat, dey ain't never go'n come off ..."

Softly, he withdrew his hand from her grip and examined them both by the candlelight. Pale, with long, delicate fingers, and a single, heavy gold ring set with an ugly, cracked stone.

"Good," he whispered.

He turned them over to expose his palms. One was smooth and white. The other, a mess of healed and half-healed burns, all of them, small and circular. Esmerelda took his palm in her clever brown hands, cradling it, like one might a small and very broken baby. "I can fix dat for y' ... Mix y' a potion. Make it perfect."

For the second time, Tom pulled his hand back. "No."

"_Pourquoi? _... Why don' y' want th' scars t' go 'way?"

He raised his gaze to look the sorceress in the eye. "Because they remind me I'm only human."

He pressed his palm over the last candle, plunging them into darkness, all but for the glowing pulse of Esmerelda's jade eyes.

* * *

**Well? It's been a while, so I hope it's a little more than incoherant babble (fingers crossed!) ... Reviews, _please_, would be so welcome! Thanks for reading **


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